


The Game Is On

by kenophilic



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Insanity, M/M, Maxwell is a little impressed, Shitty Maxwell, Surviving Wilson, Wilson's a proud proud boy and he loves his base-home, also doesn't really care, not completely finished but might be someday?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 14:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7226014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenophilic/pseuds/kenophilic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson P. Higgsbury's ninth winter is approaching, and Maxwell decides his old pal is getting a little too comfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     Wilson P. Higgsbury's ninth winter was approaching. It didn't feel like as much of a hell-hole anymore, he had to admit. He knew the terrain well, he could fend for himself, and he'd even made himself a nice, cozy little home with sturdy stone walls. He could almost even say he was comfortable.

     He'd grown used to the monsters here, the pig men, the tallbirds, the ordinary birds. Even the spiders weren't as much of a threat as they used to be. Strategizing had become a second nature to him by now. He knew when the hounds would come; he could almost always hear them. Fighting them was never his favorite pastime, especially as more and more started arriving with every instance. He'd gotten used to leading them into crowds of beefaloes, villages of pig men, or even past beehives and watched as nature took over.

     As soon as the weather had started getting chilly the first time around, he'd realized that he couldn't just wander aimlessly and sleep wherever he pleased. His first 'base' was a tiny little thing with walls made of bundled up grass. It wasn't much, but it kept the wind at bay. It kept him warm enough at night, curled up next to a fire as he waited for the sun to rise again. It was hard to sleep here, but he didn't mind if it meant that he could be working on something during the long hours of the night so that he could be prepared for morning. Gradually, he expanded it, upgrading to sturdier walls of stone. He fashioned himself warmer clothes, sewing them up whenever the harsh weather wore them down.

     He collected every strange object he came across, keeping it in one of the many chests he had lined up against his stone walls. Trees grew oddly quickly here, but he couldn't complain. It meant that so long as he kept replanting them, he had an endless source. As his base—now almost fondly referred to as his home—grew, he relocated berry bushes and grew crops just outside. He was comfortable, and almost even happy.

     Of course, things weren't always simple. His sanity would slowly dwindle down eventually, no matter what he did. Of course, he could always avoid the things that he knew would damage him most, but success never came without risks. He often had little choice if he really wanted something. Graves bothered him most, as did being too close to some of the most unnatural things in this world. He knew he had to, he knew there were things he could've needed down there, but after too many of them the his vision almost seemed to start turning gray and high-contrast. He jumped at the slightest noise, shadows appeared from the corners of his eyes.

     The shadows were the worst. They trailed him constantly when he remembered that he was an outsider here, that this dimension was strange and unfamiliar. He had his own home, back in some faraway world. He was starting to forget the colors of the walls in his own house, when he once used to wake up expecting to see his bedroom around him. The shadows haunted him. Faintly glowing eyes almost seemed to peer over his stone walls, disappearing if he worked up the courage to approach them. Sometimes, they crept into his base, watching him quietly.

     Once upon a time, one of them had even attacked him. It was horrifying, he couldn't outrun them and no other being could seem to see it except for him. He had stumbled across the grass, a sickening shade of barely-green, tearing flowers out of the ground and holding them close to his chest. He shook and sobbed, quiet screams and unintelligible babbling spilling from his mouth without his control whenever he heard the beasts behind him growl as they reared to strike at him again. The flowers were comforting, they were some of the only normal things here. Their petals were soft against his cheeks, the floral scent overwhelming him and washing away the fear as it flooded through his head. Eventually, he couldn't hear the shadows creeping up anymore. He couldn't see them, but it didn't stop him from lying there on the ground, hiccuping softly as the grass tickled his cheeks. He stared tiredly at the flowers piled up in front of him until his eyes weren't red anymore.

     He was a man of science and logic. Normality, efficiency, and productivity kept him sane. After his long trek home, he sat beside his inventions and created anything and everything that he could think up. He ended up with tools he was certain he'd use eventually, fancy new clothes that made him feel dapper and sophisticated, and a couple new machines to measure the temperature and humidity. He laid there for hours in the dark afterward, staring up at the stars. His eyes still stung. He hadn't slept in what felt like days. He drifted off after a while, but it didn't last long before the sunlight spilled over his walls and into his face, waking him up.

     He barely bothered opening his eyes, or even standing up, simply rolling over to the small refrigerator he'd crafted after coming across a pile of gears in a grave one day. A couple meatballs filled him up after that, and he spent the rest of the day picking grass and twigs, chopping a few trees and taking it easy. That was how most of his days went, quietly collecting and building to keep himself busy. Sometimes he sat there and wondered why he was simply accepting this, trying to survive in this world instead of find a way out.

     One day he came across a patch of strangely tiled ground covered in flowers with dark, twisted petals. He recognized them from some of the Perfectly Normal Trees he'd come across. (He tried very hard not to look at those too long, really.) There were mechanical sculptures of what he recognized as oversized chess pieces sitting here and there and pale trees growing from the ground, but on closer inspection he found that they were made of marble. Who had created these? He tried to get a better look, but suddenly realized that something beside him was moving. The mechanical knight he'd passed by twitched, gears creaking and squealing as it shuddered to life. It turned towards him, glowing eyes narrowing.

     Wilson's eyes widened and he took a step back as it suddenly sprung towards him. A short yelp escaped his lips as he fell backwards, turning and practically crawling before he managed to stand up, sprinting back into the trees. The noise of the knight faded much more quickly than he thought, and when he dared to look back at the chessboard patch in the distance, he saw that it was slowly settling back into the place it'd been resting in before.

     He avoided that place for a long time.

     It was just after his second winter that he decided to explore a bit more, when he came across a bone lying on the ground in the middle of an unfamiliar forest. No, not just a bone, there seemed to be something resting on the top of it. Wilson looked around to make sure that there was nothing that could be hiding in any bushes or behind any trees that might sneak up on him before he picked it up. He sat down to examine it for a few moments.

     The object on top almost looked like a closed eye, and his suspicions were confirmed when he poked it and it snapped open to reveal a curious eyeball hiding underneath. He dropped it in surprise, quickly standing up and watching it. It stared back up at him. Perfectly harmless.

     Wilson sighed, thinking for a moment before picking it back up and turning around.

     He froze when he saw what looked like a small, furry pumpkin sitting there on the ground in front of him. No, not a pumpkin. It had to be a living creature, it was bouncing ever so slightly and tapping its tiny feet. Were those teeth he saw? He stood still, staring at it with wide eyes and holding his breath. It seemed like a few good minutes before it sat down almost obediently, still wiggling in what appeared to be excitement. Wilson pulled his hands up to his chest, still holding the bone as he wrung them nervously, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, the creature moved again, hopping a bit closer. Wilson jumped and gave a quiet shout, the kind that used to frighten the spiders just long enough to stun them, lifting his arms as if to warn the fuzzy thing not to come any closer. It ignored him, bouncing towards his right. He held out the bone like a weapon, shaking and trying not to show any fear. The pumpkin bounced eagerly, sitting down again. It didn't appear to have eyes, but Wilson suddenly realized that it was watching the bone.

     He lowered it a bit, thinking for a moment and then pulling his arm back, throwing the bone as far as he could. The pumpkin hopped after it, tongue lolling out of its mouth. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. Well, that was certainly one of the oddest things he'd ever seen.

     He turned around to continue back home, when he suddenly heard the sound of its springy little footsteps approaching him again. It held the bone half in its mouth, moving up to him and seeming to look up at him expectantly.

     It was almost like a dog. Wilson blinked, pausing and reaching down to gently pry it away from the thing. It eagerly let him, opening its mouth quite wide to reveal what seemed to be an almost bottomless pit. Much bigger on the inside than it should've been. Wilson raised his eyebrows, staring into it for a moment.

     “...Huh.”

     A few days later, after realizing that the harmless little creature would follow him so long as he had the eye-bone, he mustered up all of his imagination and named it Otto von Chesterfield, Esq. The last part was particularly important to him. He'd decided on it after finding that the odd little thing could be used as a portable chest, considering the fact that it'd happily hold anything inside of it that Wilson wished without digesting it. In fact, he wasn't sure it could digest things. It didn't seem to need to eat. After a while, he came to the conclusion that this creature was his best and only friend, and cuddled it close to his chest during the cold nights. Chester didn't seem to mind, and slept soundly beside him.

     Chester listened to him intently when he spoke during the day, and Wilson found it a wonderful change from just quietly muttering to himself as he narrated the days that went by. When he would hear the hounds coming for what felt like the hundredth time, he would always grab what little he needed for at least a good day and a half of travel, his armor, and a weapon just in case he truly needed to defend himself. He would set the eye-bone on the ground, lean down, and kiss the top of Chester's fuzzy head to wish him a safe night. He'd learned early on after a terrific tragedy with a relentless tentacle that although Chester was a durable little rascal, he was not invincible. He cried for an entire day, until the eye suddenly opened again and the pumpkin came bounding back to him.

     Winters came and winters went. He found peace within the quiet walls of his new home, and one day he realized that he truly was rather well off here. There wasn't much human company, but he couldn't complain. He wasn't known for his socially active lifestyle back when he lived in the 'real world'. Of course, he did get lonely sometimes. Chester wasn't much of a conversationalist.

     Sometimes he dreamed of the last human voice he heard, waking up with false-friendly words he couldn't remember echoing through his skull. Sometimes he thought he could hear faint music, or even chuckling in the distance when he felt like the darkness was creeping up on him a little too quickly.

     Sometimes he wondered if he was actually alone.

     Wilson P. Higgsbury's ninth winter was approaching.

     He crawled out of his tent in the morning to find that everything was just how he'd left it. He hadn't expected anything else. Chester was curled up on the corner of the comfortable rugs he'd made a few winters ago, laying on top of the chessboard floor. He'd decorated his home quite well, spending days expanding the reach of the stone walls and laying down the marble tiles. He was developing higher standards for what he had in his home, keeping things organized neatly by function into the line of chests against the farthest wall. His crops were growing well, and his fridge was stocked with bacon and eggs, meatballs, and even a nicely cooked turkey dinner. He'd made them himself. He was very proud. He felt like a civilized human being—and what's more, the only civilized human being in this world.

     He absently decided that he should go stock up on some more grass today, as he was beginning to run low after using a good portion of his remaining clumps constructing ropes for his new tent. A few saplings might be put to good use for some extra fire fuel for later, as well. He sat down beside his fire pit with some of last night's bacon and eggs on a wooden plate. It seemed like a good morning so far. The temperature was beginning to drop a bit more, but he could probably go foraging today without needing a coat—

     “Nice place you've got here, pal.”

     A sudden voice startled him so severely that he dropped his plate, yelping and turning around.

     The walls were only shoulder-height to Wilson, just enough for him to peer over if need be, but the man standing on the other side was resting his elbows on the top of it, chin resting lazily in one hand.

     Wilson recognized him instantly from the marble statues he'd viciously mined down out of spite and used to create his lovely tiled floor. The same man that had seduced him into creating the horrific machine that brought him here in the first place, almost nine winters ago. He hadn't changed a bit, though Wilson supposed that he himself hadn't either. The passing of time was strange here—that's why he wasn't sure if he could consider his time being spent in years, only winters.

     The man only grinned at him. It was a lazy, friendly smile, but it chilled him to the bone more than he'd ever felt even the snow do to him before.

     “Y-You...” Wilson finally stammered, unable to pick himself up off the ground, staring up at him in horror. Why, after all this time, did the man only come to him now? He'd the one that had put him here, as though it were some kind of game. Wilson had cursed his name too many times to count, despite having only heard it once, back when the man had introduced himself to Wilson over the radio.

     Maxwell only pulled away from the wall, all but sauntering to the entrance of the base before stepping—uninvited—right inside. “Oh, that's not much of a welcome, now is it? You've been looking so proud of yourself, pal, I would've thought you'd be eager to give me a little tour of your hard work.” He inspected the place tiredly, his low, pleasant tone contrasting sharply with the thoroughly unimpressed look on his face.

     Wilson snapped out of his fearful reverie, gritting his teeth and pushing himself up off the ground. “Why would I ever welcome you? Y-You're the one that stuck me here in the first place!” He insisted, swallowing hard and trying to hide the rosy shame that blossomed onto his face when his voice broke.

     Maxwell looked at him again, and this time it was so very condescending that Wilson wished that the ground would swallow him up right then. He'd grown very unused to feeling embarrassed or ashamed. Not even the most intelligent-seeming of the pig men ever judged him for some of the most ridiculous things that he ended up doing.

     “Please, kiddo,” Maxwell drawled. With a flick of his hand, a rather comfortable purple armchair suddenly appeared in the middle of his base. Wilson jumped, his face paling just a bit. Maxwell sat down, letting out the content sigh of a man who could finally relax after a hard day of work. “It wasn't as if I plucked you out of that crumbling shack of a house you called home and kicked your bony little behind into this world with my own foot. You were just stupid enough to follow my instructions.”

     Wilson felt a surge of adrenaline rush through him, the kind that only a swarm of hounds on a bad day could prompt. He was sorely tempted to take the spiked tentacle he'd found in the swamps and bludgeon Maxwell's smug face in. He clenched his fists instead, trembling as he stared into the man's cold, calculating eyes.

     “W-Well then,” Wilson started, shaking, “I suppose you're here to tell me I passed some kind of test? That I'm free to go home now? I've done it, you know. I've survived, I-I'm well prepared for anything and everything you've ever thrown at me. I... I want to go home.” He kept himself tall and straight, glaring at Maxwell. Even sitting down, the man was just above eye level.

     Maxwell gave a condescending, sympathetic smile. “I'm afraid that's not why I'm here. Part of it may be congratulations, yes,” he eyed the base again. “But I'm beginning to think this is a bit too easy.”

     Wilson made a face. Not quite horror, not quite disgust, but something rather close between them. “Too easy?”

     Maxwell shrugged, leaning back in his chair. He waved his hand again, and another identical one appeared a few feet in front of his own. He gestured to it, looking pointedly at Wilson. The scientist hesitated, but eventually obliged. “You've made it through quite well, nobody's ever gotten this far. My hounds can barely even scratch you at this point.”

     Nobody? As in, more people? Wilson wasn't the first?

     It didn't matter. Wilson was going to make sure he was the last.

     He glared at him from the chair, hands clenched tightly around the fabric of his pants. “Is that so?” He spat through gritted teeth.

     Maxwell nodded. Another flick of his wrist, and a dark wooden table appeared between them. Black, shadowy smoke swirled around the top of it for a moment before suddenly slapping hard down onto the marble surface topping the wood with a harsh thump. Wilson covered his ears as screams echoed through the base and through his skull. The smoke quickly materialized into what seemed to be a chessboard.

     “How about we make a little deal, pal.”

     Wilson stared at it numbly. But then he looked back up at Maxwell, gaze hardened. “I'm f-far past the point of cooperating with you.”

     Maxwell only laughed. “You don't have much of a choice. You any good at chess, kid?”

     Wilson grimaced, but gave in. “I... I used to play it with my father, when I was younger.”

     Maxwell smirked. He reached out, moving a black pawn one space forward. “Let's say that if I win, I get to up the ante a bit here, what do you say?”

     He didn't reply, merely bit his lip, thinking hard. “A-And if I win?”

     The man gave him a smug look and sat back to make himself comfortable.

     “I'll send you on your merry little way, and you can be back in that decrepit shack of yours, playing with your beakers and buzzers for the rest of your happy life.”

     Wilson supposed that he couldn't argue with that. Besides, he'd been through the worst of the worst here, what more could Maxwell do? Introduce him to a few new monstrosities? Make the weather harsher than ever before? 'Please,' the scientist thought bitterly.

     He hesitated, staring up at him coldly for a long moment before reaching out and moving a white pawn forward.

     The game was on.


	2. Sore Loser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a while, hasn't it?

     Half steepled and half laced together, absently reminding him of the way he'd often stand twigs up for his campfire starter. Wilson shook his head, realizing that he'd become distracted by the way those skeletal fingers were laying between the chessboard and the demon before him. It was so hard to concentrate—his brain wasn't used to being so put on the spot after all of this time here. He just wanted to go home.

     He was starting to sweat.

     Maxwell watched him silently, one brow quirked curiously but his expression betraying nothing as he waited for him to make another move.

     Wilson had to admit, he'd made a few gutsy moves. Some he shouldn't have made.

     The black king hadn't moved even a millimeter since the game had started, while his own was currently dancing its way halfway up the board trying not to get caught by that pesky queen. Maxwell's bishop stood smugly in Wilson's corner, where it'd been since it'd knocked the rook there down with a rather sickening tap.

     His desperation was starting to make some awful decisions at this point, even after many minutes of deliberation on each move, whereas Maxwell's moves had been all but instantaneous. Wilson hadn't had any time to observe during Maxwell's turns. He'd already lost so many pieces, and his queen was all but immobile, trapped by the threat of the black rook guarding its king.

     It wasn't checkmate, but it was so gut-wrenchingly close that it truly may as well be.

     Maxwell's face didn't show it, but Wilson had an awful feeling that he knew it too, and perhaps a bit too well.

     His smile had slid into something more neutral after Wilson's first move, as though he couldn't be bothered to keep it up. He wasn't sure if it was any better than the first option, to be perfectly honest. They hadn't spoken during the entire match.

     Wilson swallowed hard, realizing that it'd been far longer than he'd taken on any of his turns as of now.

     Finally, fingers trembling, he took the knight one space diagonal from his king and moved it out of the opposing queen's range. He wasn't left vulnerable like that, but it was beginning to sink in that defeat was inevitable.

     But he had to keep trying.

     If only he could find a way to get the focus on Maxwell's king...

     The demon in question, again, didn't even hesitate before moving the queen forward, once more only a space away from the knight and leaving him in check.

     He froze, quickly moving his king to the side.

     Maxwell's rook, sulking like the devil himself at Wilson's edge of the board and pointedly ignoring the helpless pawn beside it, seemed to stare at him. The black queen moved one more space, putting him in check again.

     His heart leapt, and with a lump forming in his throat, he moved his king one more space, meeting the right edge.

     One more move on Maxwell's part, and it'd be over. It'd be checkmate. All he had to do was bring his rook to the very corner, and Wilson was done for. He had nothing around to move in the way—they were too close—and nowhere to hide.

     Maxwell moved his rook.

     Wilson suddenly found himself lost, however. He'd only moved it one space, instead of the two he'd need to put him in checkmate.

     He looked up at him again, frantic, as though begging for an explanation.

     Maxwell looked up at him, raising both eyebrows in a disturbingly encouraging gesture.

     What the hell did he want him to do?

     He stared for a long time, tears in his eyes and his hands shaking.

     What kind of twisted torture of a board game was this? What was he planning? Did he mean to drag this on as long as he could, did he enjoy watching him squirm? Wilson wanted to scream, to throw his hand out and scatter the pieces across his own marble tiled floor, which now made him rather sick to look at. He wanted to smash Maxwell's blank face into the board, rip out that perfectly slicked back hair, let himself become as feral as the hounds and finally give Maxwell what he deserved for putting him through this hell—

     And finally, he saw it.

     A glimmer of hope, short-lived though it might be. He could bring his king back one piece, move it diagonal to the rook, shielding himself from the queen with one of his own pawns between them. He could have one chance to survive this, to keep himself safe enough to try and attack Maxwell's king.

     He moved.

     Maxwell finally broke his poker face, his lips twisting into a twisted, mocking grin. Wilson's heart sank. He reached to the opposite side of the board, finally acknowledging the smug bastard of a bishop from the corner and pulling him back until it aligned perfectly with his king.

     He was trapped again.

     It was over.

     He choked, biting his lip as the tears began to roll.

     Maxwell leaned back in his seat.

     “Checkmate,” he crooned, and every white piece, save for the king, sank into the board. And then, all at once, with something between a howl and a crack, all of Maxwell's remaining pieces snapped towards the king, swallowing it in a swirling mass of black shadows before the entire board disappeared, dark smoke exploding in every direction.

     Wilson covered his face, shaking and coughing and trying not to breathe in the smoke that had rushed towards him.

     When he was sure it'd cleared a moment later, he finally uncovered his face. He was a rather pathetic mess now, his eyes puffy and his face wet.

     Maxwell was standing now, his chair was gone. As was the table beneath them. In its place was a chest, black as though burnt, and with a wicked and ominous letter M adorning the front in shining silver.

     “I figure you may as well deserve a pity-prize, so please do enjoy these. On the house.” He straightened his coat, standing up tall and smirking down at him. “Now, my reward will be arriving shortly, so I'll be off.”

     He turned, stepping towards the exit.

     Wilson gritted his teeth, his nails sinking into the dark wood of the arms of the chair.

     Maxwell stopped, holding perfectly still. He waited.

     He took a smooth step to the side as a hammer collided sharply with the stone wall, chipping off a piece.

     "Bit of a sore loser, aren't you,” Maxwell commented absently, and walked away.


End file.
